


prayed my mind

by akinasperanza



Series: the undone and the divine [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Attacked in Their Sleep, Gen, i'm not even lying i wrote this for homework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akinasperanza/pseuds/akinasperanza
Summary: The clock had ticked over to the witching hour by the time Malcolm’s eyes finally fluttered shut, leaving him adrift in a sea of shapeless demons and unimaginable terrors. From the shadows, a fragment of memory fought itself to the surface, twisting through the synapses and reaching forward with clawed hands to pull Malcolm, screaming, into the darkness.
Series: the undone and the divine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671304
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	prayed my mind

**Author's Note:**

> I truly did write this for homework, and I have the best English teacher on the planet. I've returned with a brand new bingo card, and brand new writing enthusiasm! Massive thanks to the brilliant writers who helped to encourage me to get it done :)

Sleep was one demon Malcolm had never conquered.

He could tell from looking at someone whether they were right or left handed. He could see the number of times they had been shuffled from one homeless shelter to another. He could  _ feel _ the anger that they felt, anger at their family and the world and themselves after they’d already fired a twelve gauge at the three shelter administrators found at the crime scene Malcolm had been called to once, many years ago.

And, for the most part, he’d taught himself how to separate his obligation to help from the nightmares replaying the crime scene over and over and over again. Yet, even without the crushing reality that he continued to see the same trauma, the same loss, day in and day out each day he left his apartment, sleep was the one demon Malcolm had never conquered.

Some nights, he just wouldn’t sleep at all. He’d sit at the kitchen bench, a piping mug of coffee held between his hands, the steam rising as he coached Sunshine how to be patient before feeding the vibrant budgie her seed for a late-night snack.

Other nights, he’d try to sleep even when there was no point. Malcolm could lie there, mouthguard harsh and biting into his cheeks, the restraints taut between the wall and his wrists, for hours on end without seeing so much as a wisp of sleep.

But on the rare, rare nights where Malcolm was able to finally drift away, his dreams were no escape.

The clock had ticked over to the witching hour by the time Malcolm’s eyes finally fluttered shut, leaving him adrift in a sea of shapeless demons and unimaginable terrors. From the shadows, a fragment of memory fought itself to the surface, twisting through the synapses and reaching forward with clawed hands to pull Malcolm, screaming, into the darkness.

“You’re my son, and I love you.”

Malcolm zoned back in, startled by the flaring lights casting shadows along the walls of the entrance hall. His father crouched down to his level, and Malcolm could see his reflection in the eyes so much like his own.

Martin’s hands stroked down Malcolm’s arms calmly, an attempt at a reassuring smile on his face.

“I will  _ always _ love you,” he continued, “because we’re the  _ same _ .”

Malcolm remembered the tea. The reassuring smiles and sideways glances that his father always sent him, the gentle squeeze of a hug whenever Malcolm passed Martin’s medical quizzes. The basement, the darkness, the girl in the box.

All he could do was watch as the officers grasped his father by the arms and pulled him to his feet, a smile still plastered on his face, and marched him outside to the waiting police cars and rabid reporters.

The scene twisted, pulled through a kaleidoscope as the shadows of the walls danced and grabbed at Malcolm from where he stood in the centre of the foyer, watching as his father was put into the police car and driven away. Cameras flashed incessantly as reporters stood before the screens capturing every moment of the dissolution of Malcolm’s family as the rose tinted glasses smashed to pieces upon the tiled floor. And Malcolm couldn’t,  _ couldn’t _ , begin to process what was happening. It was all happening too fast, much too fast, and he couldn’t make sense of what was happening inside his own mind. The tea, the basement, the girl in the box.

_ The girl in the box. _

_ The girl in the box. _

_ The girl in the box. _

Clawing desperately at his arms, Malcolm screamed as he stood down in the basement, in the room he was forbidden to enter, standing in front of the box he was never supposed to have opened. He couldn’t make out a face, only a foetal figure with dark hair and greying skin cold to the touch. It was a nightmare, he was  _ living in a nightmare _ , and the tongues of the monsters clinging to the walls echoed through the room as they snapped, faces pulled into oni mask imitations, reaching for Malcolm with blood soaked fingertips.

Malcolm twisted violently, almost ripping his shoulder from its socket as his sudden movement jerked harshly against the restraints bolted into the wall, mussed hair dripping sweat into his eyes as he focused his efforts on  _ deep breathing, slowly now _ . The alarm clock to the side of the bed was almost mocking as he unlinked the restraints and used his hands to push himself to sit up on the bed. Running a hand through his hair, Malcolm stood and made his way to the large window overlooking the vast landscape of metropolitan New York, the horizon barely stained tangerine against the violet sky.

Sleep was one demon that Malcolm had never conquered, but it would always be there waiting, waiting for him to try again.


End file.
